


The Civilian Newlywed Job

by fleurlb



Category: Leverage
Genre: Hurt/Comfort - Comfort Cooking, Hurt/Comfort - Hurt character needs to be carried, Trapped together - snowed in, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-10 01:06:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16460540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleurlb/pseuds/fleurlb
Summary: Eliot has always hated using civilians for jobs, but this one is personal for Maggie.





	The Civilian Newlywed Job

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kereia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kereia/gifts).



Eliot was three minutes late to the briefing because a tourist asked him for directions just as he was about to enter the building.

“So good of you to join us. What were you doing? Drying your hair?” asked Hardison, clearly relishing the role of schoolmarm.

“At least I have hair to dry,” said Eliot. Hardison shot Eliot a look and rubbed his head, as if checking that his hairline were not receding. Eliot didn't know why the man made it so easy to press his buttons.

“Hardison, your hairline is fine,” said Sophie. “You really musn't make it so easy for him to rile you.”

Eliot was about to hop over the couch and settle into his customary spot next to Parker, but Maggie was already sitting there. He opted to perch on the arm of the couch and raised an eyebrow at Parker, who shrugged in an exaggerated “no idea” gesture.

“People, can we get this briefing back on track?” Nate was leaning in the corner, looking like he had the mother of all hangovers. Or maybe it was the presence of his ex-wife that was making him look that way.

Eliot looked back to the screen as Harison advanced the presentation to a shifty-looking older man in front of a rusty farm gate.

“This is Richard Mayhew III, an 'investment advisor'.” Hardison made exaggerated air quotes.

Parker leaned over and stage whispered to Maggie. “That means he's not really an investment advisor.”

“Thank you, Parker,” said Maggie, causing Parker to smile with the pride of being helpful.

“There's something wrong with you,” whispered Eliot, but it was all affection, no edge.

“As I was saying,” Harison shot them a “shut your mouths” look, “Ol Richie here is an investment advisor. The kind who runs a pretty sophisticated ponzi scheme, uses an array of tax dodges, including a cattle ranch that has no cattle, and then siphons off some of the money to fund some pretty messed up right-wing militia stuff. So while ordinary ponzi schemes usually collapse under their own weight and there's some recompense for the victims, this guy uses his goons to keep everyone from daring to ask for their money. He pays just enough to keep people quiet and lets his thugs do the rest.”

The screen advanced through the evidence that Hardison had amassed, including an amazing series of long-lens photos of meetings with some guys who Eliot knew only by reputation and preferred to keep it that way.

“And the plan is?” asked Parker.

“The plan is fairly simple, as these things go,” answered Hardison.

Nate rubbed his eyes. “Nothing is ever simple, and this plan is complicated because of the remote nature of the place and the fact that it's winter.”

“But it's still simple.”

“Hardison, you're jinxing it,” chided Sophie.

“The plan?” prompted Eliot, who was rapidly losing his patience.

“Ol' Richie's nearest neighbor recently started renting out some luxury shacks. Perfect for honeymooners who like to birdwatch and snowshoe and make sure that Ol' Richie is where he's supposed to be,” said Hardison.

“That would be you and Maggie while Parker and Hardison hit Mayhew's office in Cheyenne to break into a safe to get the deed for the cattle ranch, and Hardison has a couple of things to do with the computer system,” said Nate.

Eliot had always hated using civilians for jobs. Marks were marks, and that was fine. But even drafting in an unwitting civilian for temporary cover was a sin that Eliot's tried hard not to commit in his years as a retrieval specialist.

“Why can't Sophie do it?” protested Eliot.

Hardison projected another image onto the screen, a mid '90s tabloid paparazzi snap of a glammed up Sophie smiling flirtatiously and leaning into a younger Richard Mayhew.

“Grifty Spice here convinced Ol' Richie that she was one of the Spice Girls and that digital music was the way of the future.”

“In fairness, it was,” said Sophie.

“No civilians,” said Eliot, crossing his arms.

“I'm not a civilian,” insisted Maggie.

“She's one of us,” said Parker.

“Not quite, Parker,” corrected Nate.

“Then, Nate and I can go. A father and son trip. Or even a newlywed trip. I don't care.”

“As fun as either of those does not sound, I need to be in town to coordinate the retrieval. They both need to go in. Mayhew's computer system isn't on the internet at all.”

“He's a smart guy that way,” confirmed Hardison.

“Nate, I don't like this,” warned Eliot. “There's no way she should be doing this.”

“You missed the start of the briefing. Some of the first investors were the oncology nurses at Good Samaritan hospital. Now one of their kids is sick and they need the money to pay for treatment, but they can't get it,” Parker stage-whispered to Eliot.

He looked at Maggie, who nodded grimly.

“I'm not a civilian,” she insisted again.

“You definitely are,” insisted Eliot, even as he felt his resolving softening under her intense blue-eyed glare.

“They're the civilians. Innocent people whose only sin was believing a quite believable sales pitch. Ruby and her family – they deserve all the help they can get because all she's ever done her whole life is help others. This time, this one time, I am **not** a civilian.”

“Well, you most definitely are a civilian, even this one time, but I guess we're going to war with the army we have, civilian and all,” sighed Eliot, resigned.

“Great, let's go steal a cattle ranch,” said Nate.

*** *** *** ***

They met the property owner at the junction with the main road and stayed in the car as they made the transfer, driver side window to driver side window, like they were in a spy movie.

“Mind you don't cross the property line, now,” said the cabin owner as he handed over the keys. “Just stay on this road, take the left fork. Don't even think about going right.”

“Yes sir, left all the way. Got it,” Eliot played a dim version of a newlywed who really only had brain capacity for a few thoughts. He kept his eyes shifting back to Maggie and kept his hand on her at all time. He looked like an attentive new husband but he felt very much like a body guard with precious cargo.

“And remember, that storm is predicted to hit tomorrow morning. Could be earlier, could be later, but don't go thinking it's going to miss us. You'll want to be tucked up inside with enough provisions for a day or two at least.”

“We're set for the week and wouldn't mind the excuse to stay indoors,” replied Eliot.

“Well I won't keep y'all. I'm sure you're anxious to get a start on your honeymoon,” said the man with a wink that managed to stay just on the right side of charming.

“You betcha,” said Eliot. He gave a friendly wave, put the truck into gear, and pulled away.

“Handy that Mayhew's ranch is on the right side. Easy to remember,” said Maggie.

Eliot couldn't tell if it was an attempt at humor or nervous chatter.

“Let's go over the plan one more time.”

“We go into the cabin and act lovey-dovey while you look for cameras or listening devices. Then we set up the shortwave radio and wait a respectable amount of time before we go out snowshoeing. And we pretty much do this every day until we get the signal that Parker and Hardison have done their jobs.”

“You've got the plan, then,” said Eliot, slowing the truck as the asphalt road gave way to a rutted dirt and gravel track.

“Down cold. On the shortwave radio, it's two clicks four times if Mayhew is in the ranch and three clicks seven times if he's not. I don't understand the four versus seven though.”

“I could explain it to you-”

“But then you'd have to kill me because it's a spy trade secret?” Maggie smiled.

“If by kill you mean bore to death, then yeah, you're right.” Eliot returned the grin. The road curved around a copse of trees and suddenly they were on open road, looking at a wide horizon full of mountains and cold blue sky.

“It's beautiful. Not sure I'd want to live somewhere so isolated that not even cell phones work, but it's not a bad place to visit.”

Eliot nodded his agreement as his eyes scanned the vista in front of them. He spotted the cabin up ahead, a tiny dot on the horizon that was getting bigger each second. He could see a lot of snow-covered nothing interspersed with a few sad trees and then a collection of dots at the far right that had to be Mayhew's ranch. His mind effortlessly computed distances and times, downgrading them slightly because he couldn't expect Maggie to be able to snowshoe a mile in six minutes.

The rest of the drive passed in an easy silence, and soon they were pulling up next to a charming wood-clad cottage with a wraparound porched that held a couple of rocking chairs and a homey porch swing.

“It's like Southern charm meets the Unabomber,” whispered Maggie before they got out of the car.

Eliot came around to Maggie's side of the car and waited for her to take a step before sweeping her off her feet like they were newlyweds in a 1940s movie. She giggled and pressed her face into his neck.

“Wasn't expecting that,” she breathed into his ear.

“I'm full of surprises,” he said as he easily carried her up the three steps and then got to the door. Which was, of course, locked.

“Dammit.' He lifted a knee to take Maggie's weight while he rooted in his pockets until he found the key and fumbled it into the lock, all while Maggie giggled. Mindful of possible cameras, Eliot put her down and finished opening the door and swung it open. Then he gave Maggie a grin.

“Sorry about that sweetheart. Not my suavest move. Let's try this again.” He swept Maggie up into his arms again and carried her over the threshold.

“Nice. So you don't look as strong as you are. Unless I'm heavier than I think.” Maggie's whisper tickled Eliot's ear and sent an unexpected jolt of longing through him that he quickly tamped down by thinking of a terrible night he once had in Belgrade.

“You're not,” he murmured as he stepped into the middle of a open-plan living-dining-room-kitchen that was decorated in rustic chic. He dropped one arm so that Maggie's feet reached the ground, but they stayed intertwined. Eliot kissed her neck while his eyes roamed the small space.

“Two. One in the moosehead above the fireplace and one in the kitchen, just above the fridge.”

Maggie took off her hat and tossed it at the moose, then kissed Eliot full on the mouth. He hadn't been expected that and he tore off his jacket quickly and threw it at fridge camera. Not a great long-term solution, but it would do for now.

He broke off the kiss and lifted an eyebrow at Maggie.

“Sorry. Caught up in the moment.” Maggie's grin was impish and indecipherable. She kept her voice low enough that if the cameras captured voices as well, they wouldn't hear her.

“Let's clear the rest of the rooms,” said Eliot.

After they'd repeated their little act in the plush bedroom, luxurious bathroom, and relatively tiny laundry room and had covered seven more cameras, Eliot took out the bug sweeper and found that the cameras only recorded video. Three strategically hidden bugs were rounded up and put in the laundry room with a small MP3 player that Hardison had set up to play a week's worth of sounds and conversations that could be expected to be heard in a newlywed's cabin.

Eliot brought all the supplies in single-handedly, despite Maggie's protestations that she wasn't entirely useless. He set up the radio in the kitchen, next to the window that faced Cheyenne. Then he settled down in the middle of the couch and folded his arms. Maggie sat down next to him, their shoulders touching, and folded her own arms.

“Now we wait,” she said.

“Now we wait,” he confirmed.

*** *** *** ***

Maggie watched Eliot load up the small rucksack with more gear than seemed possible or necessary.

“A harness and 30 meters of steel line. Seriously? We're going for a walk on the prairie. What do you think is going to happen?”

“Never hurts to be prepared,” grumbled Eliot as he stuffed a couple of silvery thermal blankets and a compass into a pocket the size of a Maggie's grandmother's coin purse.

“You know we'll look like baked potatoes if we need those blankets, right?”

“Better a baked potato than a popsicle.” Eliot crammed a white tent into the main section of the rucksack.

“Is that Hermione's bag? I don't see how the rest of this stuff is going to fit in there.” Maggie gestured to the coffee table where a couple of large flashlights, some MRE packets, socks, mittens, a rope ladder, and a small pile of other stuff waited for its turn to be jammed into the rucksack.

“Her my a who?” muttered Eliot as he picked up the flashlights.

“Hermione. You know, from Harry Potter?”

“Oh yeah. Hardison tried to drag me to those movies.”

“I never saw the movies. I read the books to Sam. The ones that were out before..... I managed to read the rest my on my own. I'll never forgive Rowling for some of her choices, but sometimes it's good to cry over a book.” Maggie wasn't sure what made her so chatty. These days, she only ever talked about Sam to her therapist and her mother.

Eliot stood up and tested the weight of the rucksack. He ran a hand over her arm and reassuringly squeezed her shoulder.

“I can't imagine-”

Maggie waved away his empathy. “It's fine.”

“How you're going to carry this rucksack. Because I'm carrying the binoculars.” Eliot's smile reached his eyes, and she knew everything he had decided not to say. She reminded herself that they were friends, colleagues even, playing a role and that nothing more could happen, for so many reasons.

“I'll arm wrestle you for it,” she forced herself to grin playfully.

Eliot tousled her hair and then pushed past her to get their hiking gear. Minutes later, they were suited up and strapping on their snowshoes, which were decidedly more high-tech than the huge wooden monstrosities she'd used as a girl. They each had state-of-the-art binoculars around their necks. Maggie carried a small backpack that contained a portable shortwave radio and a birding journal. Eliot carried the rucksack that contained everything but the kitchen sink, and Maggie suspected he would've brought one if he thought they'd need it.

“We need to make tracks, so to speak,” said Eliot.

“Roger that.” Maggie winked and set a pace that she knew she could maintain but hoped would surprise Eliot. They snowshoed in a silent blur of moving limbs and puffs of breath. Maggie watched the horizon shift and change, the mass of dots of the right becoming ever larger but never so large that they risked being seen as a threat. She pushed on and on until she thought they were within range of the binoculars and felt that they had a good enough view of the compound. Then she slowed enough to talk comfortably.

“Here looks good, right? We're within binocular range but not close enough to be a threat and we have the best view we're going to get for a while, given the way the trail bends around that copse of sad prairie trees. Must've been a house there, once upon a time, and that was their windbreak.”

Eliot opened his mouth once, then again, soundlessly, looking a little like a surprised but impressed goldfish.

“I'm not just a pretty face.” Maggie winked.

“No, you're not. You're all that and a bag of chips, as the kids say.”

“Hate to break it to you, Gramps, but the kids haven't said that in decades.” Maggie gestured toward the trees and lifted her binoculars to her eyes while Eliot did the same.

They were just in time to see a black miltary-esque Mercedes SUV pull up in front of the compound. A beefy driver stepped out and opened the door for Mayhew, who got out accompanied by a young woman who was not properly attired for an impending snowstorm.

“Looks like someone's stocked up on storm supplies,” said Eliot, earning him a sharp elbow in the ribs. “Ow! What'd you do that for. Did you see the driver open the back of the SUV? There's enough boxes of food and water in there for at least two weeks.”

“Sorry. I jumped to conclusions,” said Maggie, letting a different joke about jumping stay safely locked in her mind.

“You were right, darlin'. It's a ferruginous hawk. Well-spotted. I'll get the journal and you can write it up now,” said Eliot. He opened Maggie's rucksack and handed her the birding journal. She wrote in careful script while Eliot stood behind her. She waited until she heard four sets of two clicks, then the response of six sets of three clicks. Then she closed the book, clipped the pen to it, and handed it back to Eliot. He zipped up the rucksack and turned her around, pressing his forehead to hers.

“Nice work, partner. Now let me set this pace this time so that you don't accidentally kill me out here.”

Maggie smiled. “I doubt that, but okay, as long as we don't dawdle. I don't like the look of that storm.”

“We'll beat the storm back by at least two hours. I wouldn't have gone out if I didn't think we had enough margin.” He squeezed her hand and then started back toward the cabin.

Maggie found that trailing behind Eliot was more difficult, even at a slower pace, than cutting over clean snow. So she picked up her pace so that she was next to him.

“Not a great idea, Mags,” he said in a short burst between puffs of breath.

“It's fine,” she protested. She even stepped out one or two more paces sideways, to prove her point.

She was about to say something goading to Eliot, to challenge him to a race back to the cabin, when her feet suddenly felt nothing underneath them and she was plummeting down into darkness, her head snapping forward as the back of her head cracked unforgiving steel and everything went black.

Maggie surfaced briefly to the feeling of strong arms around her and a breeze on her face. She felt like she was being hugged by a magic carpet. Her eyelids fluttered and she saw Eliot's face, grim and determined, as she felt snowflakes brush her cheeks. She wondered why he was there and why it was so cold. Her thoughts jumbled, binoculars and hidden cameras and secret codes and the idea that they were playing spies in love for a reason, but the reason felt as small and far away as the homey cabin on the horizon. Maggie opened her mouth to speak but then her eyes closed and she was in blackness for a a second time.

*** *** *** ***

 

Eliot listened to wind raking the sides of the cabin like a ghoul trying to get in, and he stopped chopping vegetables long enough to shiver. He adjusted his bandana and then finished his chopping and checked Maggie again, for what seemed like the tenth time in as many minutes. As near as he could tell, she was asleep, but it wasn't like he could doing anything if she were unconscious and in distress. The first hour of the storm, which he'd trudged through while carrying her, had deposited at least six inches of fresh show and drifted it around his truck, burying it as effectively as a landslide.

His battlefield diagnosis was a sprained ankle, a bruised wrist, and a mild concussion. She'd been lucid enough, after they'd made it into the cabin, to ask if their message had been received. She didn't asked what had happened to her, she'd only sheepishly apologized for her stupidity and then announced that she was taking a nap. Then, she'd sunk into the couch, curled up, and slipped into a sleep that included gentle snoring, all while still wearing her winter hiking gear.

Eliot had removed her gear, including her boots, and propped up her ankle on a stack of pillows from the bedroom. He packed ice around her ankle and put a bag of frozen peas on her wrist, a thin dishtowel between her skin and the green bag to keep her from getting too chilled. He covered her with the down comforter from the bed and then paced for a bit, considering all possibilities from all angles before concluding that he'd done all he could and things would be however they were going to be.

All that remained was to keep himself busy, which he achieved by retreating to the kitchen and starting to cook. He quickly decided on a hearty chicken stew with dumplings because it involved a lot of chopping and stirring and coddling. Plus, it was like chicken soup on steroids and was sure to be helpful to a recovery.

Eliot bustled around the kitchen for the better part of three hours, making the stew and dumplings and baking a no-rise rosemary bread. He was about to figure out something else to cook when Maggie caught his attention with by struggling to sit up.

“Hey, sleepyhead, easy there. You've had a bit of a knock the head. You'll want to take it easy.”

“What smells so delicious?”

Eliot sat on the coffee table so he was close to her without crowding her.

“My mama's chicken stew with dumplings and my own rosemary bread,” he said, slipping the bandana off his head.

“Smells good. Let's eat.”

“That's a good sign, but you don't want to overdo it.” Eliot helped Maggie into an upright position and gingerly swung her leg and the pillows around so that they were all balanced neatly on the coffee table. “How's that feel? Any dizziness?”

Maggie considered for a moment. “No. My ankle is sore and so is this wrist. And my other wrist feels useless. I must have slept on top of it. Except look at these fingers.”

Eliot cursed to himself. He'd somehow missed that she'd mangled her fingers, maybe in a desperate attempt to break her fall. They'd had a chance to swell and bruise and looked quite painful. Probably broken. He jumped up and got another couple of bags of frozen vegetables and put them around her wrist and fingers, rendering both hands useless.

Maggie groaned and put her head back on the couch.

“Are you okay?” asked Eliot, wishing he were able to keep the anxiety and concern out of his voice.

“Fine. But I'm starving. Like I haven't eaten in years.”

Relief washed over Eliot. “That's fine. I can help you.”

He went into the kitchen and prepared a small bowl of stew with some dumplings and a slice of rosemary bread with a thin icing of butter. He put both on a plate with a spoon and carried it all into the living room. He sat down next to her and looked a question at her, which caused Maggie to sigh in a resigned manner and open her mouth like a baby bird.

He spooned up a bit of chicken stew with a tiny bite of dumpling and gently placed it into Maggie's mouth. Her lips closed around the spoon and a look of bliss passed over her face. He gently pulled the spoon out and waited for her verdict.

“Eliot, it's amazing. And I'm not just saying that because I'm starving. How do you get the taste of celery without the disgusting strings. And it's so soft. Celery is never so soft.”

“Celeriac. It's a bulbous root, like a giant nobbly potato.” He picked up the rosemary bread and held it in front of her face, pulling it away teasingly when she tried to bite it. She growled and followed the bread, taking a hearty bite.

“You're going to lose fingers if you aren't careful,” she said after the bread was swallowed. “Also, this bread is amazing. But you already know that.”

Eliot smiled as the praise caused a faint blush to bloom on his cheeks. “Busted.”

“Now keep the food coming, buster, before someone gets hurt. Also, maybe you can fill me in and what's happened in the last several hours. I was about to challenge you to a race when the world went out from underneath me.”

Eliot spent the next twenty minutes spooning food into Maggie's mouth and telling her about the surprise adventure of having to rescue her from an old mining shaft. She'd been lucky that a platform had caught her after 20 feet and that he'd been able anchor the rope ladder to get down to her, harness her up, and lift her out with the zipline wire he'd packed.

When the food was gone and the story was over, Maggie leaned into him and whispered a thanks in his ear. She pressed her forehead to his and when the feeling started to overwhelm him, he jumped up and made a jaunty joke about getting her second helpings before someone got hurt. But deep inside, he knew the kind of hunger that was about to get them both hurt, and he tamped it down deep inside his soul, where a bunch of terrible memories waited to keep it company.

*** *** *** ***

 

The storm raged for a full 36 hours, and it was dark when Eliot went out with a broom and cleared a path to the porch swing and the swept the snow off it as well. It was Maggie who found the switch for the heaters, which hummed to life and heated the area around the swing so effectively that they were able to sit out there with only a patchwork quilt and cups of cocoa to keep them toasty warm.

Eliot was about to make a joke about waiting when a single red flare shot into the night sky, about 50 miles southwest of Cheyenne.

“Looks like the rest of the week is a holiday for us,” said Maggie. “Just as well, not like I can snowshoe on this ankle”

“At least your wrist is better and your fingers are healing nicely. I don't mind carrying you when needs be.”

A second flare, this one green, lit the sky, followed by two blue flares.

“That's not part of the code, is it?” Maggie looked at Eliot, who shook his head and grumbled.

“No, it's not. There's something wrong with that girl, turning flares into a fireworks show.”

“It's kind of nice though, isn't it?” asked Maggie as she nestled closer to him.

He looked down and Maggie and put his arm around her, then looked back out at the horizon. Flares were lighting the sky in such a pattern that he knew Hardison was in on the act too, which must be making Nate crazy.

Eliot smiled. “Sometimes, there's nothing to do but enjoy the show.”

/The End/


End file.
